


Hell and High Water

by LittleLalaith



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Could be read as a ship or friendship, John overcomes his fear of water, hydrophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 18:02:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19114882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLalaith/pseuds/LittleLalaith
Summary: John Marston can't swim, a fact that makes crossing a river pretty tricky.Add some deep seated trauma and hydrophobia, and Arthur is going to have to coax him through this step by step.





	Hell and High Water

John Marston couldn't swim. 

It was a well-known fact within the Van der Linde Gang and had become a frequent ribbing point throughout the years; an easy jab to tease him with when they were in high spirits. But Arthur knew why he'd never taken to the water and he couldn't blame the kid. Well, not so much of a kid now, he supposed. But looking at him, large dark eyes fixed on the strong current of the river, he looked just the same as he had in his youth whenever they'd tried to coax him back onto a boat or into a lake for some harmless fun. Terrified, and small.

"We have to go around," John's hoarse voice lifted over the sound of the river.

"We can't. This is the only crossing within ten miles, if we look for another crossing, we won't get to Annesburg before nightfall," Arthur explained, perhaps a little more gruffly than was necessary. But if he approached with gentle encouragements and soft reasoning, John was likely to dig his heels in and bolt for a bridge somewhere to the north. "We cross the river here or we miss our shot at this. Now come on."

Dismounting, Arthur approached John's horse, reaching for the reigns when his companion subconsciously guided his mount back from the water. The horses would get across no problem and could probably manage it with their riders seated in the saddle, but John was anxious and the horses could smell it. He'd be likely to scared his mount and cause himself more trouble than good if they tried to cross on horseback. 

"Come on, leg over," Arthur prompted, patting John's calf to urge him on.

Reluctantly, John dismounted and stood a little distance back from the edge of the riverbank; his hand fussing anxiously at his jaw and neck, scratching at the dark shadow of his stubble. Despite the blighted summer sun, his skin was bloodless and pale, gaze flickering over the breaking surface of the water. "I can't do this, Arthur."

"You can and you will. You have to." 

"You ain't listening. I _can't_ " Those frightened eyes turned on him and Arthur felt a heavy guilt settle into his chest. This wasn't petulance, not the kind of sulking or griping that John often turned to when he wasn't getting his own way. He was scared. The same way Arthur had been scared when they'd needed to cross the Bayou swamp where there were gators hidden on all sides. The same way Kieran had been scared when they brought him to camp and called him nothing but 'O'Driscoll'. It was a fear that wouldn't listen to reason, no matter how sweetly you tried to talk your way out of it. 

Sighing softly, he let go of the horse and gripped at John's shoulder, drawing him close against his side. "I know, Johnny. But we ain't got a choice. So you'll walk with me, right here at my side, and I'll guide you over. Okay?" 

"If I fall-" 

"You won't fall. I'll be right here to hold you up if I have to," Arthur cut the objection short, not wanting him to get too caught up in his own head. "Now, hold on to my belt here if it helps. We'll go nice and slow." 

He'd expected a fight, an insistence that they could make it to a bridge and cover the distance before sun broke and ruined their cover. But John looked up at him, uttered a low oath then looped his weather-worn fingers under Arthur's belt, holding tight. "You're buying me a whole bar's worth of shine after this..." he grumbled, making his way to the edge of the water. 

The first few steps were slow and hard-fought. John tested the depth with one foot, carefully stepping into the water when he found that it only reached a small way past his ankle. Arthur guided him on with a gentle "That's it" until both feet were firmly planted in the fast-moving water. One look at John was enough to confirm what he'd already suspected - the fear had taken hold of him back when he'd fallen off the boat all those years ago, scarring him in places they couldn't see. Logic and reasoning were beyond him now, instinct and panic driving him to claw his way back to land even in waters as low as this. It was only by the grace of stubbornness that he was still stood at Arthur's side. 

"Arthur... I... I can't do this," John all but whimpered, his scratched voice breaking as he pushed the words past his laboured breathing. "My head's spinning... the water's too fast and it'll be deeper in the middle." 

"Don't worry about the middle. We'll sort that part out once we get there. Just focus on the rocks at the bottom of the river, plant your feet good and heavy," Arthur advised gently. He placed a hand across the center of John's back, propping him forward a little where he was trying to retreat back. He noticed with mixed amusement and pity that John's knuckles were white against the tanned leather of his belt, gripping like Arthur was the only anchoring point between him and oblivion. "Look, the water's barely running over your feet. You can do a few more steps. When it gets a little deeper, we'll stop so you can get your bearings." 

It was a small thing to Arthur, walking into the water until it reached his knees. But he saw the courage it took for John to meet him there. Maybe he'd go easy on the teasing from now on, cut him a little slack when he insisted on staying at camp when they went fishing. And yet, step by determined step, John did walk with him. 

"There, look. This ain't so bad. You're doing good, John," Arthur smiled, treating him less like a spooked mare and offering him more friendliness in his tone. Funny how those things overlapped when it came to Marsten - frightened creatures with a tendency to bite or kick when backed into a corner. Thankfully for Arthur, there wasn't much for John to kick out at when it came to water. "The pressure against your knees will be worse here, but it'll be easier to push through once it gets up to your hips." 

"Hips? Arthur, you didn't say nothing about it getting that deep!" John protested, his voice hitching higher as he stopped in his tracks. Arthur cursed himself and kept his arm firmly around John's shoulders. 

"If it's easier, I can carry you over," Arthur offered calmly, not teasing or mocking. A sincere offer, one without strings attached. 

John shook his head firmly and swayed slightly, leaning his weight against Arthur for a moment. "No.. no, no. Don't do that. It'll just make me worse," he insisted, closing his eyes as he fought back the dizziness brought on by his panting breath and the movement of the water. 

"Alright. I won't lift ya," Arthur promised, his arm slipping more firmly around John's ribs to hold him close, giving him a more solid anchor for his balance. "Just take it easy. You're alright. Breathe slow, just like when I taught you to shoot that scope rifle. Remember?" 

John's eyes crept open slowly, rising to meet Arthur's with bemusement and mild irritation. "What in the hell does rifle shooting and water crossing have to do with each other?" 

"Normally nothing. But right now, I need you breathing right. Otherwise, knowing my luck, you'll faint out on me and I'll have to drag you to the other side. So, focus. Breathe deep and slow. Hold the in-breath if you have to. But breathe slow." 

Nodding slightly, John took a deep breath and let it out shakily as Arthur guided them on another step. The river couldn't have been more than twenty feet across, but it felt like a thousand miles with John panicked at his side. Arthur settled his weight carefully when a rock shifted under foot and waited for John to catch up. If it took a hundred years to cross the river, then that's what it would take. He'd be patient. He could see the fire in John as he pushed on, knew that he was doing his best. He couldn't ask for more than that. Hell, they all had their weaknesses. 

It was John's misfortune to step on an uneven rock, his leg buckling and weight falling back. Arthur's grip shifted, tightening around his waist before pulling him in - chest to heaving chest, John's fingers fisting tightly in the rough fabric of his shirt. He was rigid, eyes screwed shut against the death he felt gaining on him, panicked sounds occasionally breaking loose as he slowly convinced himself that he wasn't going under. 

"You're alright, Johnny. I'm right here," Arthur soothed, stroking his back until he calmed down slightly. No longer the knot of strong muscle and wiry strength, but something small and pliant, hiding in the space between Arthur's arms and chest. 

"I wanna go back to shore," John murmured, voice shaking with the threat of tears. 

"We're getting to shore, John. S'just that we're aiming for that one over there instead of the one behind us," he answered, pointing to the opposite bank in an effort to show him how close it was. But at this point, he might as well have been pointing at the shores of Guarma for all the good it did his companion. 

"I don't wanna go under. Not now, not ever. Not ever again," John ranted, trauma spiraling behind his eyes, preventing him from seeing the reality of the water around him. In John's mind, this wasn't the river between Emerald Ranch and Annesburg in 1899; this the San Louis River in 1886, closing in around him as he sank beneath the waves. 

"Hey... who pulled you out of the water that time?" Arthur asked firmly. 

""Y-...you did," came the cat-scratched reply. 

"And who's gonna pull you out if you fall in this time?" 

"You will," John said, a little more confidence in his voice. 

"I ain't gonna let you drown, John. If you fall, you'll be able to get back up. But I won't stand here waiting to see if that happens," he reassured firmly. "If you go down and I don't catch you on the way in, I'm sure as hell reaching down there to get you out. So stay calm, hold on and keep putting one foot in front of the other. 

Something softened in John, his legs unlocking from their panicked rigidity as he allowed himself to be led a few steps further. He gasped as the cold watch breached their hips, soaking into their shirts. But the current was easier to resist once it rose past their legs - less pressure against knees so they were at less risk of buckling. Arthur listened as John tried to keep his breathing steady, his arm constricting around Arthur’s as he followed him through the deepest part of the river. After a while, he noticed a low, broken tune floating up from John’s cracked lips. ‘As We Go Marching On’ curling in the air around them, keeping John focused on progress and movement, even as a bluegill brushed past their legs and threatened to spook John into running. But he stayed calm, his fingers loosening their hold as the water retreated back down their thighs. 

By slow degrees, they rose from the river, soaked feet striding out onto the dry grass. John let go of Arthur’s arm, turning to look back at the river before a loud, cracked shout of triumph spilled from his lips. Arthur laughed, a kind-hearted and friendly sound, but it was broken off by a grunt of surprise when John threw his weight at the older outlaw. He flung his arms around Arthur and squeezed him tightly, laughing deliriously against his shoulder. “I did it!” 

“You sure did,” he grinned, patting John’s shoulder. Looking down to the scar-torn smile of his partner, he was reminded of a thousand instances when he’d seen that same expression resting on John’s features. Their first stagecoach robbery unsupervised; the first time John had beaten him at blackjack; the summer they’d broken Old Boy in for John. It was a smile that spoke of victory, of relief, and of gratitude. It was a smile that reminded Arthur that, maybe, there was more to this world that suffering. 

“Come on, I didn’t go through all of that for us to miss the sunrise,” John winked, whistling for his horse as he disentangled himself from Arthur’s arms. Soaked, shaken and half-mad with adrenaline… Arthur had never seen him look so powerful. 


End file.
